


Play Dead

by animalboything



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19365499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animalboything/pseuds/animalboything
Summary: Yakov thinks he lives for competition and the strict rules his coach has instilled in him, from how he should observe competition to turning his face away from love. He never expected to fall for his biggest rival, a man who would show him what it means to love the ice, and other people.A flashback story that moves through decades, shaping Yakov as the coach he is before the series begins.





	Play Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know the songs are way too modern. :) Wanted to use them anyway.  
> I commissioned Vodkaa for the art used in this story.

The first day they met, they fought.

Not the argument sort of fight, but an all out brawl. It was over something stupid, something about whose right of way it was on the ice when they collided. Yakov couldn’t remember who started it, or who won, if anyone “won” before their coaches pried them away from each other before they started screaming. The stewards threatened to have both of them disqualified and competition hadn’t yet begun.

“Stay out of my way,” Yakov threatened, skating to the opposite end of the rink. His Czech wasn’t so strong, but he understood three words very clearly,

“What a prick.”

*

“Watch your competitors,” Boris, Yakov’s coach, told him, the same advice since he was a little boy. “Study them. Their strengths, their weaknesses. Adapt.” It was one of the few bits of advice Yakov actually listened to. He constantly broke the rules for his art, hair long and in a ponytail, elaborate and sometimes garish costumes that he was fortunate enough to afford. He skated with raw power and emotion, immaculate jumps and spins that consistently gave him high scores.

“Watch your competitors,” Boris reminded him as they left the Kiss and Cry.

“Why bother?” Yakov asked, already in the lead by a long shot. Humoring Boris, he moved rinkside and and watched an interaction very different from his own. Unlike Boris, who was strict and firm before he went into the rink, /his/ coach gave him a hug. “Take it at your own pace.”

Yakov thought it was the worst advice he’d heard.

“Watch your competitors,” Boris reminded him again.

Yakov snorted. “It’s a waste of time.”

Boris pointed to the rink. Yakov’s eyes moved to the skater, one who was sensual and smart, one whose movement could only be described as art. Anger boiled to the surface as he watched him do a quad toe loop. /Watch your competitors/ Yakov remembered Boris saying as he stepped on the podium taking silver.

Josef Karpisek claimed gold again.

*

“How do you do it?” Yakov demanded in English, stopping Josef on the street on the way to his hotel. “I work around the clock and your coach is telling you to take it easy?”

Josef brushed his hand back through his short hair and readjusted his glasses. “He didn’t say take it easy. He said go at my own pace. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not lazy, Yakov,” Josef said seriously. “But if I don’t enjoy what I do, the judges will be able to tell in a heartbeat.”

Yakov snorted, lip tugging up in the corner. “You’re saying it comes down to fun? Get real. Maybe you won today, but you’ll never get a championship if you’re out to have fun.”

But the smirk dissolved from his face. Josef pushed past him to get to the hotel, muttering, “I find it depressing that you /don’t/ find it fun.”

*

“Your scores were too high.”

Yakov drowned out Boris as the lecture began. Boris got on him hard and he deserved it: he tried to change a triple to a quadruple flip and fell, and his hand touched down after a combination jump. After an unusually bad short program, the only way to go was up. “Focus,” Boris yelled.

Yakov moved to center ice before Boris could finish yelling. It’d be the same lecture. Adapt. Adjust. Go on. He glanced rinkside, surprised to see Josef there, coat over his costume to keep warm. From afar he mouthed ‘good luck.’ Something that would normally enrage Yakov yet this time… there was something about it that made him determined. He threw himself into the music the second it began, costume glittering under the lights. Even though Boris warned him not to, he turned his last triple flip to a quad and landed it cleanly. He could barely hear over the sound of spectators cheering.

“That’s my Yasha!” Boris cried out, face aglow, squeezing Yakov in a tight hug once his scores were announced and he soared to the top of the bracket. “Come, interviewers await!”

Yakov hesitated before he shook his head. “You wanted me to watch my competition, right?”

Boris looked surprised and pleased. “You understand then.”

Yakov wasn’t entirely sure he understood as he moved to watch, anxiety rising in the pit of his stomach with each skater. He held the number one slot. He watched Josef slip in the rink, his costume a mixture of whites and pinks, glittering preciosa crystals from his home in the Czech Republic. And his routine, as always, was magical, sensual, passionate.

By the time the competition was called, Yakov was in the center on the podium with his gold, Josef to his right with silver, a genuine smile on his face. “Finally,” he said. “Now I have a real rival.”

“You’re happy about losing?”

“I’m happy to see what you can really do. It’s humbling. Inspiring.” Josef held out his hand. “Congratulations, Yakov.”

Yakov hesitated before closing his hand around Josef’s, not able to utter the words “Thank you” out loud.

*

“Yakov!”

It was a surprise to hear his name in public not from his coach. For a moment, he thought he’d ignore it, but then it came again. “Yakov! I know you can hear me!” Josef waved from the hotel bar. “Come have a drink with us.”

Yakov hesitated. He knew he should have gone to the room, to focus on the next day’s skate instead of mingle with other competitors. That’s what Boris would have said. But Boris wasn’t there, and one drink couldn’t hurt. Just a beer.

He found himself laughing more than once, surprised at how interesting some of these men were, men he technically knew for years but rarely spoke to. He felt a pang of something when he saw Josef subtly reach for another man’s hand beneath the bar, fingers linking with a secret. Their secret. When their eyes met, Yakov turned his face away, excusing himself for the evening.

*

Yakov hated crying. He hated the few times he was brought to tears, and hated it even more when he saw others lose it. Today was the later as Josef sobbed in the bathroom.

“Pull yourself together,” Josef’s coach said, shockingly tough. “You couldn’t have waited until after competing to get dumped?”

Yakov and Josef’s eyes met before Yakov walked away briskly. He focused on his skate, immaculate as always, before lingering to watch Josef’s. Pain radiated through his body, a stark contrast to his song. Yakov claimed another gold. But without Josef on the podium, it didn’t feel like a good win.

*

“We need to go,” Boris insisted as Yakov lingered in the hall.

“Five more minutes.”

“We have to go to the airport-”

Josef emerged from the locker room. Despite Boris’s yelling, Yakov crossed over to him immediately.

“I’m sorry,” Yakov said.

Josef looked surprised. “For what?”

“In the bathroom… you were crying. I should have said something. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Josef said, trying to laugh though pain was written over his face. “You skated well. I didn’t.”

“I don’t date,” Yakov said awkwardly.

The statement threw off Josef. “... I don’t understand.”

“The dating… your… situation. This is pretty much why.”

“Then that’s a shame.” Josef forced a smile. “Joy offsets pain. It was bad timing. I’ll do better next time.”

“Yakov!” Boris yelled. “We have to go!”

Yakov grabbed his bag. “See you at the next one,” he said, one thing on his mind: How can you time a break up?

*

“Who’s the girl you’re with?”

Yakov was startled by the question. “Pardon?”

“The ballerina. Who is she?” Josef asked, standing before him in the locker room, a garment bag over his shoulder with a new costume. Yakov heard he was meant to have a new skate.

Awkwardly, Yakov said, “I don’t know.”

“... you don’t know?”

“I mean… that’s not what I meant. Lilia is… I don’t know what we are. Friends. Acquaintances.”

“Lovers?”

Yakov rubbed the back of his neck and gave a noncommittal grunt. “Possibly.”

“Possibly?”

“It’s not your business. Why do you care?”

“I see how she looks at you-”

Yakov groaned and turned his back. “None of your business.” Maybe it was his imagination, maybe it was real, but he swore Josef didn’t stop talking.

“-because it’s the same way I look at you.”

*

“I’m not gay,” Yakov said the first time Josef tried to kiss him. They were in a bar the night after their short program, the freeskate lingering for the next day. Laughing and talking for hours, having a blast until Josef touched his face, pushing a strand of long brown hair behind Yakov’s ear.

“I’m /not/ gay,” Yakov repeated.

“Well, if you’re getting technical, neither am I.”

“You like men.”

“I’m pansexual.”

“Pan-what?”

“Pansexual. It means-”

“You know what?” Yakov got to his feet, tossing out cash for their drinks. “I don’t want to know.”

*

“You’re daydreaming again,” Boris said, snapping Yakov to reality.

“Huh?”

“You have that lovesick face. I hate it.”

“I’m not seeing anyone.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not lovesick. It just means for once you’re not making stupid decisions.”

Yakov hesitated. “If I did-”

“You won’t.”

“Hypothetically, if I did date… would you be mad?”

“Don’t you listen to a word I say?”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Boris grunted. “The principal ballerina? Lilia?”

Yakov hesitated then nodded.

Boris sighed deeply. “I can’t say I’m happy, but there could be worse things.”

*

“I’m not gay,” Yakov said, gasping between breathless kisses.

“You know, we really need to work on your pillow talk,” Josef teased. “Because that’s so not cute.”

“Shut up,” Yakov said, silencing Josef with his mouth.

*

“What’s with you and Karpisek?” Boris asked.

The question came so suddenly, Yakov at first lost the ability to speak. “He’s my friend.”

“Just a friend?”

Yakov bit the inside of his cheek. “Right now, yes.”

His coach countered, “In the future, also yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means it’s forbidden, Yakov,” Boris said. “It’s illegal.”

“Boris-”

“You’re just friends. You understand? That’s all it’ll ever be.”

Yakov looked away. “... understood.”

*

Josef roughly shoved his gear in his skatebag. “So you don’t date.”

“Josef, please-”

“You literally said you don’t date. I’m not just going to skip out on life if you won’t commit. That’s not fair to ask me or anyone to do something like that.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

Josef threw his hands up. “That’s exactly what you’re saying!”

“No, it’s not. I’m saying I want to but I can’t. My coach-”

“It literally doesn’t matter if you want to if you won’t commit to it.”

“I’m not allowed to.”

“You’re an adult, Yakov. The only one stopping you is yourself.”

“I have a career!”

“And I don’t?” Anger flushed to Josef’s face. “Get out.”

*

Yakov shoved his way through reporters to watch Josef, ignoring the yells of his coach. Josef was sporting a new costume, one that was mostly black but glittered like a night sky over a sentient ocean, and a new song. He slipped into motion with ease, his body as fluid as water, the piece sensual, loving, tender.

 _Love, love is a verb_  
_Love is a doing word_  
_Fearless on my breath_  
_Gentle impulsion_  
_Shakes me, makes me lighter_  
_Fearless on my breath_  
_Teardrop on the fire_  
_Fearless on my breath_  
_Night, night of matter_  
_Black flowers blossom_  
_Fearless on my breath_  
_Black flowers blossom_  
_Fearless on my breath_  
_Teardrop on the fire_  
_Fearless on my_  
_Water is my eye_  
_Most faithful mirror_  
_Fearless on my breath_  
_Teardrop on the fire_  
_Of a confession_  
_Fearless on…_  
_-Teardrop, Massive Attack_

Yakov didn’t stay for the full piece. As he stood to the left to claim bronze, Josef on the far right as silver, another competitor stood between them. The smile on Josef’s face was all he needed to know: the victorious man between them was his new enemy.

*

Yakov blocked Josef in a hall. “So you’re with that guy?”

“None of your business.”

“The hell it’s not.”

“Yakov, you made your stance clear. You made your choice.”

“It’s illegal.”

“Sometimes you have to break the rules for what’s right.” Josef shoved past Yakov. “I need to warm up.”

“You’re going to get arrested some day!” Yakov yelled.

“Then that’s my business, not yours.”

*

“You’re miserable.” Lilia’s words were so plain, so to the point, she could have been commenting on the weather. Yakov wanted to argue, to say it was nothing, but he couldn’t. “Did you talk to him?”

“I’ve tried,” Yakov mumbled. “He doesn’t get it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Lilia?”

“Are you sure he doesn’t get it?” she repeated. “Because I think he damn well knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“He could get arrested.”

“You don’t think he knows that?”

“What are you suggesting?” Yakov asked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Of course you do.”

*

Josef held up his hand in a gesture for silence as he walked down the hall. “I don’t want to hear it, Yakov.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I said-”

Yakov yanked Josef’s arm, tugging him down the adjoining corridor into the janitor’s closet. He rested both hands on Josef’s shoulders, leaning until they were eye to eye. “Watch my skate.”

“What?” Josef pulled a sour face. “I always-”

“Watch my skate,” Yakov said seriously. “I’ll be here tonight, midnight, on the ice ready for your answer.”

“My answer? Yakov, what are you-”

Yakov opened the closet door and slipped out, leaving Josef strangely speechless.

*

Yakov never skated like that before. In a costume that was so risqué, something resembling a military coat with its epaulettes yet no sleeves and gauntlets instead, the deep purples and blues nearly matching Josef’s newer costume. Boris had screamed at him over the choice but Yakov ignored him. He knew the risk, especially competing in Moscow. He knew the odds.

 _Darling, stop confusing me_  
_With your wishful thinking_  
_Hopeful embraces_  
_Don't you understand?_  
_I have to go through this_  
_I belong to here_  
_Where no one cares_  
_And no one loves_  
_No light, no air to live in_  
_A place called hate_  
_The city of fear_

 _I play dead_  
_It stops the hurting_  
_I play dead_  
_And the hurting stops_

 _It's sometimes just like sleeping_  
_Curling up inside my private tortures_  
_I nestle into pain_  
_Hug suffering_  
_Caress every ache_

 _I play dead_  
_It stops the hurting_  
_-Play Dead, Björk_

 

Yakov poured his soul into every moment, every instant, throwing himself to the music. His jumps were high, cleaner than they’d been in the past, his spins faster. As he finished, the spectators on their feet, the ice vibrating beneath his skates from applause, he scanned the audience, only catching a glimpse of Josef’s short undercut as he slipped away.

“That was risky,” Boris said. “But you did good, Yasha.”

Yakov didn’t have it in him to reply. He left the Kiss and Cry in a daze as he moved to watch the rest of the competitors, waiting specifically for one in particular.

It felt like eternity before Josef showed up. In the slim fitting costume, black with those waves of purple and blue, Yakov found himself breathless. And although he’d watched this skate a few times before, he felt like he was really seeing it for the first time, really hearing it. Two lines.

 _Teardrop on the fire_  
_Of a confession_

*

It was after midnight. Yakov stood in costume on the ice, waiting. He ran fingers through his ponytail anxiously, a gesture he did again and again and again as the minutes passed, chest aching. He wasn’t coming.

Yakov was ready to step off the ice when he heard the scrape of blades. In the dark, the glitter of preciosa crystals adorning the dark costume alerted Yakov of his presence before the man was fully in sight.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” Josef said, seemingly sheepish, one hand moving to Yakov’s shoulder, the other to his waiting hand.

Yakov grinned as his fingers linked with Josef, free hand moved to Josef’s lower back as he took the first step back in their dance. “I think I was the one who kept you waiting.”

“You did,” Josef laughed, pulled into a spin before eagerly slipping closer, enveloped in Yakov’s strong arms as Yakov kissed him.

(Artist: [Vodkaa](http://aminoapps.com/p/398uw6), commissioned work)

*

“It can’t be,” Boris said, looking at Yakov with a mixture of disgust and pain. “It can’t be.”

Yakov hung his head, not speaking, not moving, not budging. Beside him, space between them, was Josef, who hadn’t dropped eye contact with his coach for even a second.

“Yakov, your career is too important. You can’t throw it away like this,” Boris begged. “Isn’t there anything I can do to get you to stay?”

Josef rose to his feet. “We’re done here,” he said as he walked to the door. He stopped just inside. “Yakov, let’s go.”

But Yakov couldn’t budge.

“Yakov, I’m serious. Let’s-”

“I can’t.”

The color drained from Josef’s face. “What do you mean you can’t?”

Yakov closed his eyes, torso curling over.

“But your skate,” Josef said desperately.

And, just like his song, Yakov quietly said, “Don’t you understand I have to go through this?”

Tears welled in Josef’s eyes. “Please…”

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Josef’s gaze turned into a glare directed at Yakov. “Go to your ballerina. Go marry her. Have babies. I hope you’re happy with her. I hope you’re happy.”

Yakov wilted once the door slammed.

*

Decades passed. Their careers as skaters ended, moving then to coaches. Yakov and Lilia divorced. There was only so much they could take. The distance between them too strong. From afar, Yakov watched Josef, many times with a new companion by his side. For awhile, he seemed to see one person, someone more consistent. Yakov thought he was happy for Josef until then that person wasn’t at the next competition, the next, or the one after that.

Decades passed. Yakov took Viktor Nikiforov under his wing and watched Josef leave his home nation for Switzerland. “This boy is worth it,” he said of then ten-year-old Christophe Giacometti. “He will be a champion.”

“You can never let him beat you,” Yakov once told Vikor when he was drunk.

“Hmmm?” Viktor asked, eyebrow arched.

“The Swiss boy. You can never let him beat you. I don’t care how, you can’t let him beat you.”

“Yakov-”

“That’s an order.”

*

Josef blocked Yakov’s path. “He changed his skate.”

“That’s not against the rules.”

“There was absolutely no artistry. It was just a bunch of tricks.”

“Not against the rules.”

“Chris should have won,” Josef said, shoving Yakov out of the way. “Don’t ever pull a technicality stunt like that on him again. If you believe in Viktor, let him win on his own merit.”

Yakov fought the tightness in his chest.

“I don’t feel good about that win,” Viktor said later that evening.

Yakov closed his eyes. “If you get in a situation like that, do it again.”

“Yakov?”

“This is a competition, Viktor. You do everything you can to win. And when you’re done competing, you teach that to your students. And so on and so forth.”

“Chris was devastated… it hurt him, Yakov.”

“And if you don’t do everything you can in your absolute power to win, you’ll hurt me.”

*

Yakov chased after Viktor in the snow. “Vitya! Wait! Isn’t there anything I can do to make you stay?”

Viktor smiled. “You’ve been the best coach for me, but it’s time.”

“If you leave, you can never come back!”

Viktor hugged Yakov tightly. He pressed a kiss to his cheek. “This is the one time I’ll have to disobey you.”

Once Viktor boarded his plane, Yakov screamed in rage. “You never listen to me!” He soon fell to his knees, hands pressed in the snow. Tears streaked down his cheeks, tears he hadn’t shed in decades. He thought about Viktor, how his student smiled so sadly when he said he needed to go. That he fell in love, that he needed to follow his heart.

He dug out his cell and looked at the screen, flipping through his contacts for a number he never dialed. Contact: JOSEF KARPISEK. His finger hovered above the screen, quivering near the call button.

With a choked sound from the back of his throat, he moved his finger to the opposite side of the screen.

_Are you sure you want to delete this contact?_

No, Yakov thought, not at all--while his finger pressed "yes.”


End file.
